The world is gently held, today. Close-packed clouds hang low overhead, and a mist rises from every low area. It just reaches the level of my eyes. The light is gray and soft, like doves.
In the cemetery, the obelisks thrust up like masts from the fog, and every ice-bottomed standing pool is a mirror. I stepped over a blue paper carnation and the perfect, tiny handprints of squirrels.
Someone might tell me there is strife in the world today, but I'm not sure I would believe them.
In the cemetery, the obelisks thrust up like masts from the fog, and every ice-bottomed standing pool is a mirror. I stepped over a blue paper carnation and the perfect, tiny handprints of squirrels.
Someone might tell me there is strife in the world today, but I'm not sure I would believe them.